Dear Dirty America

ADAM MICHAEL LUEBKE

The tall, lean black dude with the shiny bald head was getting a little agitated as he stood in a long line at the coffee shop waiting to place his order. He mumbled to himself about not understanding what could take so long about whipping up a few drinks. Just as I was going to tell him to calm down and enjoy the wait, he looked at me, lowered his eyelids halfway, and said, “Hey, you’re an actor, right?”

Certainly not, I was going to say, I haven’t done any under the table deals for important directors or prowling casting agents. But before I could say anything he said,

“Thor! Dark World. That’s the one. Loved that movie. You were awesome in that one. Sorry I don’t remember your name. You’re…Dimsworth, or–”

I’ve learned by now not to outright deny or accept these accusations that only happen in Los Angeles. It’s best to roll with the punches. I was already nodding my head by that time, and I jumped right in and said, Terrible film. Overdone. Too sentimental. Bombastic. The director was a bastard to work with. I regret the whole deal, I told him, shaking my head. I was in peak physical condition — had about 150 pounds of muscle added onto where I’m at now.

He seemed disappointed. “I thought the fighting scenes were kick ass. And the cities getting torn up–”

Well, they should have been effective, I told him. For the amount of money the US government sunk into the project. The whole film was a CIA psyop. Your tax dollars helped beef up the action. They don’t put money into a flop.

“What’s a si-hop?” he asked.

We moved ahead a couple steps in line. I became aware of how quiet the packed coffee shop was. Strange, how silent a room full of caffeinated people could be. Mostly their minds were far away, sailing on whatever stream of information their computers or smart devices provided them.

It’s a psychological operation, I said, leaning closer to him. But don’t tell anyone I told you. These movies are not made for simple entertainment, but are highly engineered to emotionally attach particular demographics to a certain political agenda, social belief, or overall lifestyle. It’s called an involvement device. Music. Story line. Visual stimulation. They trigger and instill in you a pre-planned pattern of thought.

“Shit, I just liked the sick fight scenes, man,” he said, and slapped his palms together.

Exactly. That’s what all men your age, living in this epoch of recorded history, were supposed to like. Viewers like you are hooked by an expertly orchestrated set of emotions and visual effects that carry their attention spans throughout the film while discreetly downloading an array of prearranged agendas into your compliant consciousness. It’s simple, really, with modern technology. All based on a few algorithms tweaked to ensure the film is a box office success, and the right people will see it.

I could see he needed further explanation.

It’s kind of like running a sheep farm, I said.. Once the farmers acquire the skills and watch the general movements of the herd, it takes little effort to manipulate and control them. There are always a few wayward sheep, but the snarling herd dog forces them into line. One or two sheep escape every couple of years, but they are so ill-equipped to live in the wild, they die, are eaten, or come back to be herded. Where the food is free, the agenda is outlined, and there are no difficult decisions to make.

This is not new, by the way. The technology is just more advanced. You can’t control entire civilizations through war, it has to be through illusion. Only when the population has affordable and easy access to weapons of the same sophistication and caliber as their rulers is there a chance for true democracy.

Otherwise there’s only the semblance of freedom and control by the people, which is allowed by the real owners of the country and upheld by goliath organizations, like major Hollywood production companies as well as esteemed higher education institutions.

And humans are not complex these days, I said. I wouldn’t have taken part in the acting, however, it was a fruitful gig, and I had an excuse to grow out my hair. Which I haven’t cut yet. I mean, imagine getting paid a few million dollars to let your hair get long.

“Looks good,” he said. “Like Samson and shit. So you’re saying I learned something from Thor and I didn’t even know it?”

You didn’t learn nothing, I said. You were programmed. Actually, your lifetime of programming was reinforced. Specifically, to think you’re a dominant male who can direct his own future, independently shape society by his own hand, and wield influence over his surroundings with as little effort as it took to feel those emotions you felt in spurts throughout the couple of hours you soaked up the action.

And you didn’t know it. But don’t fret, I told him, because chances are a fellow like you watches a flashy blockbuster film many nights of the week. Thor had a nominal effect in all that clutter. It’s like one session in a lifetime of targeted influence. According to the people I worked with, Thor was 10 percent viewer indoctrination, and 90 percent wasteful entertainment distraction.

The line moved forward. My admirer slid his fingers over his scalp. “That doesn’t even seem right. I can’t remember much about that movie, except–”

Except you liked Thor and you’re going to see more movies like it. And watching it also took up two hours of your time and concentration. That is squandered emotion and energy that could have been put into something worthwhile, such as studying why the economy is being intentionally undermined, or why we don’t need more invasions of poor countries overseas, or why the real unemployment rate is far higher than what the White House tells us. And those are just the couple of molecules on the tip of the iceberg.

The movie also made you feel like a man, I said, despite the statistical analysis that men in the western world have sperm rates that have plunged by 30 to 70 percent since the age of our grandfathers.

“There isn’t anything wrong with my sperm,” he said loudly. Suddenly, other people were listening. Heads jerked up from their stupor. Someone had uttered a buzzword and it had rattled around the dimmed edges of their sluggish minds. My friend said it again, but quieter, “My sperm is just fine. Ask my lady. She would notice if something changed.”

Have you measured it? I asked, and stared into his eyes.

“How do you measure it?” he asked and glanced at the floor. “At home? With a measuring cup? That’s sick, isn’t it?”

You need it tested by a sound medical professional, I said. I know mine is just fine. But that’s because I ingest velvet bean extract every day. I had to for Thor. I’ll have to double my dosage soon as I get ramped up for the third installment in the series.

“Velvet beans?” he asked. He was really rubbing his scalp now. Should he be offended? Angry? Amused? It was clear he didn’t know. “There’s a third Thor coming out?” he finally asked.

You’d better believe it, I said. There are more CGI monsters to kill. More epic scenes to construct out of geometric shapes on a green screen while I stand in front of it and act tough. And more need than ever to keep up the high level of cheap, valueless entertainment as more disheartening economic and geopolitical news is on its way.

As soon as the CIA approves of the story line, I told him and winked, they’ll move ahead and we’ll shoot the fucker.

My admirer was thrilled to hear that. “You’ll maybe get me a backstage pass so I can see it being filmed. I’d like to chat with Natalie Portman, too,” he said.  He offered to buy me a coffee.

I’ll accept, I said. It’s my last cup before I switch to drinking mostly goat’s milk with milk thistle seed powder to help me bulk up for part three. It’s a Hollywood secret, I told him. You sure do have a lot to learn.

[1905 image a scene from Ragnarök, the final battle between Thor and Jörmungandr]

[Thor picture by Dick Johnson; sheep farm photo by Caroline Ford